


Wardrobe

by DragoJustine



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: M/M, PWP, SGA Secret Santa 2009
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-01
Updated: 2010-01-01
Packaged: 2017-12-17 19:29:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,311
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/871165
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DragoJustine/pseuds/DragoJustine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>SGA_santa fic for Scrollgirl, who asked for John/Ronon, slice-of-life, and episode tag. This is so totally Not My Pairing, so when in doubt, write porn.</p>
    </blockquote>





	Wardrobe

**Author's Note:**

  * For [scrollgirl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/scrollgirl/gifts).



> SGA_santa fic for Scrollgirl, who asked for John/Ronon, slice-of-life, and episode tag. This is so totally Not My Pairing, so when in doubt, write porn.

The morning after they saved McKay's sister, Ronon opened his eyes and watched the dark-on-dark silhouette of Sheppard groping for his clothes well before dawn.

"Not time yet," he said. He always woke first and dragged Sheppard out to run, same room or separate.

"I've got status reports and stuff," Sheppard said, his voice thick the way the Earthers' coffee addiction made it in the mornings. He should have read them last night, Ronon realized, but a week at the SGC was a week under more surveillance than Sheppard was comfortable with anymore and Ronon's room had no cameras.

"Get you in two hours," Ronon said, and closed his eyes, but then Sheppard made a little sound. Ronon's senses kicked up a notch smoothly: no changes in the light, no drafts, no peripheral movement. "What?"

"You kept these." There was a slight clink from a zipper.

"Don't know if like 'em yet."

"You wore them for three days."

"Don't know if you like something when you don't have a choice," Ronon answered, and the dark Sheppard-shape made a slight aimless movement that meant _fair enough._

Ronon didn't lay awake thinking about it, because sleep was important, but when he closed his eyes he did find himself replaying, just once, the double-take Sheppard gave him when he stepped out of the locker room at the SGC.

Sheppard beat him to the mess after jogging and showers, and Ronon fell into place behind him in line wearing his leathers. When Sheppard turned to pass a plate, his eyebrows lifted in half a question. "What?" Ronon asked.

"Nothing."

Ronon shrugged and kept piling up his plate.

Teyla was back from the information-gathering trip she'd been on when they heard about McKay's sister. McKay was talking to her now, an intense unhappy-looking stream, and she had on her patient confessor's smile. Sheppard slowed his steps down to something below a meander. Yeah. Some conversations weren't worth hurrying to. Ronon grinned and led him the long way around the room to their table.

"John," Teyla said the moment they were in earshot. "I was just assuring Rodney that Jeannie's life advice was certainly given with his best interests at heart. But perhaps if that subject is finished" -- and if Rodney had half the sense the Ancestors gave a kaba nut, Ronon thought, that tone of voice should make McKay a lot more frightened than he looked -- "we can discuss the search for my people."

"Yeah," Sheppard said. "Let's do that," and they sat, Ronon's ankle lightly brushing Sheppard's under the table.

\------------------------------

Lieutenant Henderson was in his third training group, shooting every Monday and hand-to-hand every Thursday, and he was a big guy. The perfect size, really, just the right width shoulders, and he was always neat and smelled clean, too. Most importantly, he was willing to do Ronon a favor (though his eyes went a little wide and startled when Ronon asked).

Ronon took the t-shirt back to his quarters while Sheppard and McKay and Teyla laid out their next missions. He dropped the shirt on his bed and pulled the jeans out from under it. The jacket they'd given him had been constricting and cut all wrong. It didn't lie right when he buttoned it and the edges of it flapped wrong when he didn't. The white shirt was unwearable, with all the fiddly little buttons down the front.

But the jeans were okay, once you got used to them. Warm, breathed well, seemed sturdy even if the rivets were all for show, he just didn't have a vest in blue. The tshirt was fine too, though it took a long time and a lot of experimental arm-swinging to get used to the tug of the short sleeve across his biceps. It was washed soft and a steel gray that worked okay with the jeans. Henderson hadn't had blue.

Ronon went to go find Sheppard and figure out if he could fight in them.

He could, at least as well as his own. The only problem was, Sheppard couldn't.

"What's with you? You suck," he said as Sheppard hopped backwards, shaking his hand, his bantos stick skittering across the floor for the third time.

"This is a normal level of sucking for me, thanks." Sheppard picked up his stick and looked at it ruefully, like maybe his third disarm was somehow its fault.

"If you stopped staring at my ass you'd fight better."

Sheppard tossed the stick back in the corner. "Screw that. Come on, hand-to-hand."

The way Sheppard was fighting, that would send him to the infirmary. "Not a good idea."

"So don't hit, grapple."

"Why would I--" But then Sheppard came at him and brought him down.

Sheppard had the upper hand on him by far, fighting like this. Ronon tried to never, ever close, but he knew the Earther military trained this way. The reality of an enemy inside his strike distance, pinning him to the mat, spiked his heart rate and made the blood pound in his ears, and even though Sheppard had a better idea of what he was doing Ronon managed an adrenaline-fueled heave and flipped them.

Sheppard went limp under him, with dark eyes and a wide lazy smile. He was hard against Ronon's thigh.

Ronon stood abruptly and only barely managed to keep from kicking Sheppard, still sprawled on the floor.

"You think this is a game? You think this is some kind of a joke, like, you play video golf and I fight and it's all the same thing?"

"The hell?" Sheppard asked, rolling over and pushing up to his knees. "You do play games. You showed me."

"Yeah," Ronon said. The abrupt end of the adrenaline dump left his right arm a little shaky. He offered the left instead, to haul Sheppard up. "I just didn't know what you were doing." Stupid, stupid, stupid.

"Just, you know." Sheppard gave a vague nod downwards. "Sexy jeans."

Huh. "That much?"

"Nevermind."

"That's weird."

"Gee, thanks." Sheppard's cheeks went just a little red.

They dried off and drank in silence, and then Sheppard made noises about paperwork. "Come by tonight," Ronon said, and they parted in the hall.

The only mirror in Ronon's quarters was above the sink in the bathroom, but the bigger three- and four-room units they'd found in the next tower over had long mirrors, down to the floor. He found an empty one and stood in front of it, then turned sideways and looked again.

They looked like pants. A little cluttered, really, with the pockets breaking up the plain lines he was used to, but they fit good. Just pants. The weirdest part was the t-shirt, with the sleeve right across his upper arm partitioning his body strangely.

He looked like an Earther, or close enough, though he was darker than all but a handful of Earthers he'd ever met.

He spared a thought, just for a second, for what Sheppard would look like in Satedan clothes. Not browns, with Sheppard's coloring, but blues, or grays and the blacks he already seemed to like. V-neck and bare upper arms and a belt freed of the weird loops Earthers put on their pants, less of the buttons and zippers cluttering everything up. More natural materials. Give him pilot's feathers on his wrists.

The image was hot, but not particularly hotter than Sheppard was normally. It made something turn over and uncurl inside him, though, a gentle bittersweet far different from the clenching pain memories of Sateda normally caused. He would like seeing Sheppard dressed like that, he decided, pain aside.

Ronon closed his eyes and put it away firmly, then walked back to the main tower.

He left the clothes on until Sheppard came to his room that night. He stood, and Sheppard looked a little surprised, and then a little embarrassed, and then a lot awkward. "You didn't have to--" he started.

"Wanted to," Ronon said, and stepped into his space.

"So you like them?"

"They'll wear." Ronon cupped the back of Sheppard's head and kissed him, demanding, to break the awkwardness. Sheppard kissed back, hard and a little stubble-scratchy, and let out a long shaky breath.

When they pulled apart Sheppard's hands were around his upper arms, gripping the bottom of the t-shirt sleeves. One finger slid underneath and stroked the skin high on his shoulders.

Ronon smirked. It was about time Sheppard noticed the weirdest part of the outfit.

Sheppard's left hand moved away from his arm and over his chest, and fingered the little logo embroidered on the shirt. "So when did you attend the University of Memphis?" he asked, with a sarcastic smile that didn't quite mask his arousal.

"Henderson," Ronon said.

Sheppard nodded, and his hands kept trailing over the thin material, tracing the neckline up above his collarbones and following the seams over the shoulders and down the sides. Then, without warning, he hooked a foot behind Ronon's knee and pushed just hard enough to sit him down on the bed. Ronon laughed, happy and loose, and watched while Sheppard fumbled to get his shirt unbuttoned and off.

Ronon reached for the hem of his own shirt, but Sheppard said "leave it," quick and earnest, and then sank to his knees between Ronon's spread thighs.

His hands were deft and sure on the strange metal button, and undid the zipper carefully, pulling out first and then down. He paused when he saw the boxer-briefs under, dark blue and brand new. "Since when do you..." he asked, trailing his fingertips along Ronon's stomach just above the waistband, almost light enough to be ticklish.

"Seems less stupid when you start wearing pants with zippers there," Ronon said, and tangled a hand in Sheppard's hair.

"No kidding."

Hot breath through thin cotton felt strange, warm and oddly distant, and Ronon felt his hips pressing up just a little. "Be patient," Sheppard muttered, and started stroking Ronon right through them while he pressed his face to the inseam of his jeans, mouthing a little at the tight muscles of Ronon's thigh.

It was easier to slide jeans off sitting, something about the way the fabric slid against sheets, or maybe the easy, practiced way Sheppard hooked his thumbs in the belt loops to help. But he stopped Ronon from sliding the underwear off with them, tucking his face in the crease of Ronon's leg and touching everywhere, rubbing and cupping and stroking.

When Ronon started leaking the spot of damp was a shock, cool and a little rough when Sheppard dragged the fabric across the head of his cock. He must have made a noise, because Sheppard looked up with a lazy, happy smile, and slipped his hand in through the slit to pull it out. Ronon tangled a hand in his hair again, and rand his thumb over and then between his lips, because he loved the hungry-intent look Sheppard got on his face like that.

Sheppard sucked him, careful and thorough and very good. It felt weird, the way his balls were still held tucked up inside the briefs, the way it was hot in Sheppard's mouth and cold in the open air and then warm again under the cotton.

Sometimes, watching Sheppard suck cock, he wondered which of them was enjoying himself more. This time, with the stifled little noises Sheppard made around him and the way his hips jerked restlessly, he was pretty sure he knew.

Ronon came, his hand clenching tighter in Sheppard's hair, and then reached down to haul Sheppard up onto the bed when he was still not quite done with the aftershocks. Sheppard landed hard on top of him in a tangle of legs, and Ronon only barely managed to slide a hand down between them for a few rough pulls.

Sheppard curled over when he came, forehead pressed to Ronon's shoulder and mouth open, gasping, against his t-shirt.

They lay like that for a while longer before Ronon shoved him off to look down at the wet streaks on the stomach of his t-shirt. "That's grosser than on bare skin," he said.

"Yeah," Sheppard mumbled, face smashed into the pillow. "But now you take it off and use it to wipe up anywhere else."

Ronon did, and killed the lights, and lay down. "You liked that," he said.

"It's not like I've got some kind of a thing."

"Sure you don't." Ronon twisted, got comfortable, threw his arm casually across Sheppard's body.

"Well, I don't exactly go around on Earth humping everybody in blue jeans."

Ronon's hand found Sheppard's wrist, the right one where his sweatband was. He flicked at it, and Sheppard reached over to pull it off and toss it down next to the bed.

"Not a weird thing. This was just..."

"Familiar," Ronon said. His fingers traced shapes on Sheppard's bare wrist, feathers spread up along the tendons. He wondered for a minute what it would be like to touch there and feel leather instead of sweaty cotton. Remembered the way Sheppard had tucked a hand into Ronon's front pocket and held the fabric tight, before he unbuttoned the jeans. That image again of Sheppard, in a grey vest, in leathers--

He wondered if he should find Teyla tomorrow. She would spar with him, and make him sit with her and breathe, long enough to find words for this. Some things needed words.

"So you should keep these. They'll be useful, you know, if you have to go back to Earth. But you don't have to--"

Ronon let that strange, gentle not-sadness uncurl in his stomach again, and looked at it carefully, from all sides, and decided he didn't need Teyla to help him with words for this one.

"Wear them sometimes. They're comfy," Ronon said.

If he looked like home to Sheppard now, that was okay with him.


End file.
